


Focus

by SharpestRose



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-15
Updated: 2011-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:09:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestRose/pseuds/SharpestRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emyn Muil. An impassable labyrinth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Focus

"Are you hungry, sir? There's... well, there's quite a bit of lembas, and water to wash it down. I used to say that the Ivy Bush watered their ale down to naught but foam and colour, but I doubt I'd turn up a nose at a mug now."

Frodo smiled, blinking tiredly. "No, Sam, thankyou, but I don't feel like eating just now. Do you think we should call a day of it soon, rest until morning?"

"Soon. I keep hoping we'll find a spot with softer ground, though it don't seem likely the word 'soft' gets used overmuch round here."

Another tired grin from Frodo, a ghostly echo of his old expression that dimmed down before Sam even had a chance to smile back. Coming to a decision, Sam let his pack fall to the ground, relief spreading across his aching shoulders.

"I reckon it's soft enough here, really. A body gets used to sleeping rough, like."

This made Frodo smirk, but that was close enough to a smile to please Sam for the time being, and they set about making camp for the night. Frodo sat down heavily with a sigh, easing the fine silver chain from around his neck.

Sam busied himself with seeing if there was anything other than Elvish waybread in their supplies, a search that proved fruitless (not to mention nutless, breadless, and, most disappointingly, sausageless). When he next looked up, Frodo hadn't moved, the necklace hanging slack from his hands on his knees, making the ring twist and spin in the stale air. Frodo was watching it, and Sam was reminded of nothing so much as the old joke shows at the Bywater fair, the travelling hobbits with top hats and furling capes who would lull volunteers into a strange half-sleep and then tell them all manner of stupid tricks to perform.

Old Mr Bilbo had explained the workings of it to Sam, but he'd used words like 'mesmerise' and 'confustication' and the like, which hardly made it clearer.

Now, in such a different place and circumstance, Sam began to see what it had all been about. It was a matter of concentrating, of making some poor fellow focus on a thing until he forgot where he was or what he was doing.

Sam had never thought much of those old joke shows, and he thought even less of the new one before him.

"Are your arms hurting you, sir?"

"What?" Frodo tore his eyes away from the ring and looked up, startled.

"Your arms. I know those straps can bite like fire after a while, and I thought you might be cramped. You weren't moving them."

"Tell me, Sam, has anything I've ever done escaped your notice?" Frodo asked with gentle teasing, slipping ring and chain into the pocket of his vest.

"Not lately, no. Want me to see if I can rub some of the ache away? My Gaffer's got awful knots in his hands and arms, and he hasn't had to spend a month of truesdays sleeping wild. I used to rub his for him, I might be able to do a bit."

"I put my faith in your magician's hands then, Sam." Frodo shifted so that there was room behind him for Sam to kneel, dropping his head forward and chin down wearily.

"You're as coiled as one of those spring-traps your cousins used to plant underfoot," Sam noted with sympathy as he rubbed at Frodo's shoulders and upper arms. "Is this helping any?"

"Mm," Frodo sighed. "Yes, Sam, thankyou."

Sam worked for a time longer, kneading what soreness he could out of muscles that bore more weight than any hobbit should have to.

"Let me see your hands now." Sam moved around and crouched before Frodo, taking the slim wrists in his palms carefully. As soon as one of Sam's fingertips touched the pad of Frodo's thumb, however, Frodo gave a hiss of pain and shrank back.

"That hurts!"

"Yes, Mr Frodo," Sam coaxed. "I know, but if you'll let me see to it, it won't."

Reluctantly, Frodo held out his hands again. Sam rubbed at the sore, curled fingers, the strained wrists. When he prodded at another pinched spot Frodo wrenched away fast as lightning, the heel of the offended hand bumping against the pocket of his vest.

Sam heard the dull chink of muffled metal and Frodo visibly relaxed, his shoulders slumping and his pupils dilating wide. Sam winced at the way Frodo gripped at the pocket, rucking the travel-worn fabric in such a way it was surely chafing at his scar. It was like seeing a child with a blanket or a beloved toy, only through a mirror of dark distorted glass.

Just like an old joke show, only then there had always been a way out for the volunteers, some word or gesture that would pull them back into the world.

Sam knew better than to spend too long questioning his own thoughts, intuition having served him better than deliberation in the past. So now he acted, before doubt could creep in. Leaning forward, Sam bumped his lips to Frodo's, pressing in with insistent stubbornness until he received a response. Frodo made a choked sound of surprise and opened his mouth. Their mingled breaths were edged with sourness from their irregular diets, and their lips were chapped and rough to touch, and their mouths were dry, and it was the most glorious kiss since the first ages of the world.

"Sam," Frodo panted, breathless, and Sam moved to scatter kisses down Frodo's neck and along his jaw and to the very points of his perfect, delicate, dirty ears. Sore hands scrabbled at the buttons of Sam's shirt and Sam sat back, making Frodo sit still as he pulled the clothes from them both. Frodo made a small, choked sound in his throat as Sam eased the vest from his shoulders, but didn't move to stop him.

They lay back on the pile of clothes and cloaks, shadows painting their skin silver and black. Oh, but Frodo had lost weight, his ribs and hipbones seeming to strain painfully against his damp skin.

"Sam." The whisper came again, as if all other words and language had been lost to Frodo. Sam let his thumbs seek the peaked nubs of Frodo's nipples, sucked the taste of sweat and pain from the curve of his collarbone. Then, suddenly enough that Sam was disoriented by the surprise, Frodo rolled them over and straddled Sam with a maddening grind of hip against hip.

Now Sam could barely breathe for the hungry push of Frodo's mouth against his own, lightheadedness making his reactions slower. Frodo seemed to know this, use this, his hand slipping down between their bodies before Sam was ready to expect it.

The touch caught him offguard and he groaned, and Frodo seemed to catch that sound and swallow it, perhaps finding in that noise of need what sustenance food no longer gave him. So Sam gave him another, fed him on gasps and cries and the writhe of flesh on flesh and the ache of worry and the tremble of need and on love, love that was all these things in one and more besides, all the things that Sam had never had the words for.

Frodo left bruises in his wake, marks on Sam's hips and neck and legs and belly, purpled kisses and caresses that fell like rocks on a riverbed. Then mouth to mouth again, each kissing as if they would like to die inside the other. An arch, a shift, Frodo's head thrown back in such a way that his half-mast eyes glittered in the dark, and everything was white noise. When Sam came to himself again, they were a boneless tangle together.

"My own," Frodo whispered on hot breath, stroking meaningless patterns across Sam's chest. "Mine."

"Yes, Frodo. Yours always," answered Sam, pressing a kiss to his temple, and then they slept.


End file.
